


Observational

by Freakierthanthou



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 14:55:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freakierthanthou/pseuds/Freakierthanthou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is bored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observational

Sherlock had been in a dark mood for two weeks, ever since their last case. He barely spoke, hardly moving except for brief fits where he played the violin, petulantly, for hours on end.

He wasn’t shooting up the walls quite yet, so instead of storming out for his own safety and sanity, John instead dragged his friend out of the flat to get dinner. 

“Boring,” Sherlock complained as they left. The night air was what people tended to call brisk- chilly, but not too cold. “Boring,” Sherlock repeated. It was quiet out, the sort of afternoon when people who weren’t at work mostly stayed indoors, snuggled in warm and safe with the people they loved, quiet people, warm, safe people, people who weren’t intent on reminding them that they were

“Bored!”

“I know!” John snapped. His patience was wearing thin. “I heard you the first two times.”

“Well, I’m bored.” Sherlock was sulking now. “Why did we have to go out?”

John sighed. “Because, as you are so fond of reminding me, you were bored in the flat.”

“And now I’m bored and cold,” retorted Sherlock. “Wonderful improvement, John, just wonderful.”

Your sarcasm isn’t necessary,” John said.

“Why isn’t anyone killing anybody?” Sherlock demanded loudly enough that a woman half a block away crossed the street. John was dully surprised to find that it didn’t even bother him anymore. 

“You can’t rely on murderers to entertain you all the time,” he replied. His tone of voice was about as reasonable as it got these days, even if his words were the sort that would be equally at home in the context of a villain in the movies. “It’ll do you good to get out of the flat once in a while, without any killing going on.” A very strange movie. 

“It’s cold,” Sherlock repeated. 

“You’re too thin,” John told him absentmindedly. “You get cold easily.”

“Do not,” replied Sherlock, although he pulled his coat a bit tighter around him. “Can I borrow one of your jumpers?”

“Sherlock, we’re half a mile away from the flat,” John pointed out. “Look, there’s the restaurant up ahead. It won’t be cold inside.”

Sherlock squinted at the warm lights in front of them. “It’s bright,” he observed.  
John tried not to groan too loudly. 

They were seated quickly, and John pushed a menu in front of his face to preempt any conversation. 

Naturally, it didn’t work.

“My brain is melting,” Sherlock announced dramatically. 

John started betting against himself how long the people at the tables within earshot would last. 

“It’s going to rot.”

If the conversation continued in this vein, probably not more than ten minutes, if they were hardy. 

“I’m dying, John.”

“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” he demanded irritably. 

“I need mental stimulation. I can’t just-” over the corner of his menu, John saw Sherlock’s hand being waved about erratically “turn it off and focus on the telly or something equally dull. I need to do something with my mind or I’ll waste away.”

John put down the menu. He already knew what he was going to order anyway. Chances were, Sherlock had read his own menu while the waiter had carried it over and made his decision even before they sat down. 

“Fine,” he said. “Deduce something.”

“Deduce what?” Sherlock demanded.

John selected someone at random. A woman was seated at the bar alone, just out of earshot. “Her,” he suggested. “What’s her story?”

Sherlock shot him a dirty look. “Really John,” he said. “That’s too easy.”

“Not for me.” He leaned back in his seat. “Tell me everything you can see about her.”

“Poor, just graduated uni. Recently moved, but not from out of town, likes animals, doesn’t like exercise, and is going to order-” Sherlock flipped over the menu and looked down briefly- “crab.”

No matter how many times he did that, it never stopped being amazing to John. He tried not to let it show just yet. “Explain.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. 

“Her eyes keep focusing on one spot of the menu, approximately twelve centimeters down and on the backside, left. The entry that corresponds with that closest is the crab. So, that is what she wants to order, but she can’t help but glance back her purse. She’s not looking out for pickpockets, she wouldn’t be, she’s got it in her hands after all. Obviously she isn’t sure if she can afford it. It’s in the top twenty most expensive items on the menu, but it would hardly break the bank. Poor, then, but not destitute. Struggling, more like, having to keep herself off the luxuries.”

“But she will order the crab?” John couldn’t help but interrupt, he never could.

“Of course she will. She’s feeling confident today, thinks she deserves to treat herself. It’s because of the date, you see.”

“Date?”

Sherlock nodded at the mirror behind the bar, where he could clearly see the woman’s face. She wasn’t looking at them, and John was amused to note that her eyes were instead fixed on her purse. 

“There are marks on her eyelids. Mascara. Barely noticeable, but she smeared it and had to redo it, didn’t clean off all the way. She doesn’t usually wear makeup, then, or at least not as much as she is wearing right now. She wants to impress someone. That lipstick hardly screams “take me seriously as a professional,” so a date then, one she’s excited about. Possibly even a first date with someone she’s fancied for a while.”

“He’s meeting her here then?” John clarified. “Or she,” he added as an afterthought. 

Sherlock probably could have told him the gender of the date, but he didn’t. “Not the date,” he said. “A friend. She’s too relaxed for a date she’d wear that much makeup for. She doesn’t anticipate time to go home after, which is why she’s wearing the makeup now, although her friend will likely make her redo it in the bathroom here or wherever they go shopping.”

This time John chose not to interrupt. 

“Yes, shopping,” Sherlock continued, as if replying to the obvious question. “Most dates are in the evening, for some absurd reason, but she’s certainly not going to a job in that shirt. So she and her friend are going somewhere, maybe even shopping for her date.

“She has time off in the middle of the week to go shopping, and she’s concerned about money. That says unemployed. Her eyes still have bags under them and there’s a slight malformation on her right middle finger from holding a pen repeatedly for long periods of time. Given her age, most likely a student, but not on break, not at this time of year. So she has left school recently, probably from having graduated.

“And she lives alone.”

Sherlock was picking up pace, to the point that John could hardly follow. The detective waved off a waiter who came to take their order with hardly a glance in the poor man’s direction. 

“Her shoes, trainers, well-worn. They’re old, likely her only or most regularly used pair of shoes. The tops of them have scuff marks, now, you never see those in someone who lives alone or lives with careful partners. Someone threw their own shoes on top of hers, likely because there isn’t much room in her entryway.”

“I’m sorry. I thought you said she lived alone?”

“They’re old, though,” Sherlock said. “They’ve been practically engraved in her shoe, but there haven’t been any new ones for a few weeks or possibly months. Difficult to tell at this distance. Unlikely that she would notice, much less tell off her flatmate for it. She probably does it herself without realizing. So she just moved out. But moved out of a flat in town, she’s not new to London.”

“What makes you say that?” John wanted to know.

“Because she has a friend she’s on good enough terms with to go shopping together, she already has a date but most likely with someone she’s known and fancied for some time, and she has had a volunteer job for at least a few weeks.”

John just raised his eyebrows and sipped on his water, waiting. 

“The scratch on her arm is from an animal on her arm but there’s no fur on her clothing. She’s dressed casually, so she wouldn’t have been avoiding a pet. It could be a short-haired animal, but that’s unlikely because of her shoes.

She doesn’t take long walks; they’re worn, but from age, not from use. So not a dog. It could be a cat, but short-haired cats are more expensive, less common in shelters, difficult for someone on a student budget. No other commonly domesticated animal could have made those marks, so she doesn’t have a pet at home.

“More likely she works with animals. She doesn’t have a steady income, so she’s a volunteer, probably at an animal shelter. The fact that she’s kept that job after university ended indicates that she plans to stay in town for a while. Given the time of year, I’d say she just graduated from university and someone, possibly rich parents, are helping her pay for a flat while she looks for a job.”

He finished with a delighted smile, clasping his hands in a self-satisfied manner. 

“Brilliant,” John said. “Now you’re not bored anymore.”

Sherlock frowned at him.

“Let’s order and then I’ll pick someone else for you to do.”


End file.
